Chapter Text
Elrond could only pray that no one had seen the Lord of Rivendell slip on a puddle and completely fall to the floor.
Standing and straightening his robes, he huffs. Trailing down the hallway are wet footsteps.
Arwen had gone to the river with her brothers today to ease the oppressive heat of summer. He would have thought his sons would have had the common sense to dry their little sister off before bringing her back inside.
He follows them to the family solar where his children are excitedly recounting their day to their mother. Celebrían is nodding along to Arwen’s story with the knowing look of one who has heard many children’s stories and is doing her best to follow along. The little girl’s eyes widen when she spots him.
“Ada! Ada!” She chirps once he has pulled her up into his arms.
“I take it you had a fun day, little lark?” He taps her nose, delighting in how adorably it crinkles.
Her feet kick excitedly in the air, “We rode down to the river and ‘Ro let me steer Nethig all by myself!”
“Wow, all by yourself!”
“And Elladan let me jump off the rock into the water!”
“Oh he did, did you?” He looks over at his son, who stares intently at the carpet.
“Yes!” Arwen waves her hand and Elrond barely dodges it.
“Well, let’s go get you dried off.”
“You’re silly, ada!” She giggles, “I’m already dry!”
His hand slides through her hair and indeed, it is only faintly damp.
“We got back hours ago.” Elrohir replies to his silent inquiry.
“Elrond?” Celebrían murmurs, reaching up to stroke her husband’s back, “Are you alright?”
He shakes off his confusion and smiles, “Of course. The day must have just gotten away from me. Now, let’s get some food into our little cave troll before she turns to stone!”
Arwen’s shrieks of laughter as he tickles her echo through the hall.
Glorfindel needs a break.
Summer has slipped into the golden colours of autumn and with that, winter preparations have swallowed his daylight hours. Final missives brought by messengers from Mirkwood, Lothlórien, and Mithlond arrive and depart each day.
He has just left another meeting that turned into a marathon when his stomach growls traitorously.
Hopefully it will not be too late for dinner.
As he turns towards the curling stairs to the dining room, a reflection catches his eyes. Footprints track the entire way down the hall towards the scribes’ office.
Some poor messenger that got caught in a storm.
A pang of sympathy ripples through him and he flags a passing guard to make sure the messenger receives a hot bath. The elf gives him a curious look but agrees.
Only in the depths of night does Glorfindel gasp awake.
It hadn’t rained in days.
He tries to be logical about it. He visits the Healing Halls and chats with the staff to see if there are any new patients. He checks with Erestor and the châtelain about arriving houseguests.
All his leads run dry.
You’re fine, you’re just tired, you’ve been working too hard, ask for a day off.
That is how he ends up in Elrond’s office, sharing a glass of wine at a time a little too early for acceptable standards.
“Ai, these reports are going to drown me,” Elrond sighs, one hand sweeping over the mounds of papers. “Even my dreams are of grain inventories and field crop maps.”
Glorfindel snorts into his glass, “Perhaps you also need a rest.”
“When autumn has finally given way to the first snows, then I can rest.”
“I feel I ought to have you put that down in writing. To make certain you follow through.”
“Another day, when I do not ache.” Elrond rolls his wrists with a wince and then selects a sheet off the smallest of the piles. His brows scrunch and he drops it to the desk in disgust.
“This is soaked… all the ink has run.”
Glorfindel leans over, “What was it?”
“Something from Lindir by the look of it. He is the only elf I know who uses blue ink.”
“A new song then? He will be devastated if that is his only copy.”
A hand dances nonchalantly, “He probably has written ten copies, one for the library, one for the Hall of Fire, one for his own songbook…”
“A miracle then, that it is not an original.”
“But I must have the chief builder check the slates on the roof.” Elrond looks up to the green and gold ceiling above, “This is the fifth time I have found water where it should not be.”
“Speaking of water,” Glorfindel wonders aloud, “did that drenched messenger ever deliver his message?”
“What messenger?”
An uneasy thought grows like the scrape of fingernails across the back of his neck.
“Last evening, as I was walking to dinner, I saw watery footsteps leading to the scribe’s office.”
Elrond’s gaze narrows in the same way it does when examining a patient and Glorfindel immediately feels incredibly foolish, surely it was just some unlucky elf who fell into the river.
Right?
“Are you feeling alright, my friend?”
“Of course, Elrond. Do I not look well?”
“It is just… we have not had anyone new arrive in two days.”
He flies out of his seat with a shout. But it’s not the news that moves him.
No, that touch on his neck, which he had thought only the chill of fear, has turned to the feeling of a hand grasping it from behind.
Elrond lurches forward in fright for his friend and when Glorfindel turns, the collar of his tunic is darkened with water.
And in the silence left by their held breaths, they watch in horror as a trail of drops moves across the room and out the door.
Unable to even comprehend sleep that night, both find themselves back in the study, sitting side by side and staring blankly into the hearth.
“How…” Elrond’s hands twist around each other, “how is my house haunted?”
“Rivendell is a haven for weary souls. Some are bound to bring ghosts. I just did not expect them to be so literal.”
“What do we do? This… ghost, whoever they may be, is clearly here for a reason. Is this the will of the Valar? Only in the tales of Men have I heard of souls not passing Forth. And what man has died here in such anguish?”
Glorfindel rubs at his chin with a thumb, “Has the ghost caused harm?”
Elrond’s eyes dart up, the firelight turning silver to molten gold. “What do you mean?”
“Well the ghost has only been annoying but not dangerous.”
“Lindir lost some sheet music and I lost a little bit of my dignity when I slipped. But are you saying we keep the ghost around? What if they do cause harm?”
“Then we find Mithrandir in haste because if there’s anyone on Arda who can help, it’s an Istar.”
The look Elrond gives him could curdle milk but he just shrugs in response.
“It’s not like you know how to vanquish ghosts. Unless of course, you’ve been keeping one of Vilya’s secrets away from me.”
The elf sighs and rubs his nose in a very familiar motion, “It is infuriating how calm you are about this.”
“Oh trust me, beneath this gorgeous head of hair, I’m quivering.” He throws himself into the other’s shoulder with a mock cry of fear.
Elrond rolls his eyes and flicks the other’s temple exasperatedly, “How anyone has ever taken you seriously, I do not know.”
Arwen’s scream tears through the entire valley and Glorfindel abandons his meeting mid-sentence to sprint towards it, heart choking in his throat.
She was supposed to be having a nice quiet riding lesson with her brothers but when the warrior arrives, he finds chaos.
Arwen’s horse, an ordinarily docile mare that plods lazily along in the arena, is galloping out of control - with the little girl desperately clinging to her back.
Her brothers are dancing around the animal, trying to calm her without causing her to rear or spin - which would easily send their sister hurtling to the ground. They both share a look of relief when they spot Glorfindel, his equestrian prowess legendary.
He vaults over the fence and calls out to Arwen in an even voice.
“Arwen, I know it’s very scary but your horse is scared of your screaming just as much as whatever scared her first. Can you try very hard to be calm and quiet?”
She nods, biting hard on her lip as the animal half-bucks. Her fingers curl even tighter into the mane.
“Good, good. You can hold on as tight as you want, she can’t feel that.”
And in the voice he saves only for Asfaloth, Glorfindel murmurs to the terrified horse. Low and flowing, the words spill like fog into the panic-strewn air. Though she still stamps in place, he can creep closer.
Just as he is near enough to reach for the reins, the horse’s ears flatten and she bolts. He has to throw himself away, tumbling into the dirt to avoid the wild hooves.
Arwen cannot contain her screech this time as the bucking renews.
He climbs to his feet, ready to try again when a single footprint indents the soft ground in front of him.
Frozen by the shock, he watches as they approach the horse. She begins to settle, slowly and nervously, and the reins dip as if someone has taken them, water droplets spattering the dirt.
Elladan wastes no time and in a breath has yanked his sister off the horse’s back. Elrond hurries down the steps and Arwen’s voice becomes a sobbing jumble of words as she clambers into his arms.
“What happened?” He runs a frantically soothing hand over her hair.
“Look-” Glorfindel points to a welt on the animal’s flank, “She must have been stung by a bee and spooked.”
A stablehand arrives to lead away the mare, who snuffles at his pockets for treats, fright completely forgotten.
Elrohir is standing motionless despite the commotion and he meets Glorfindel’s curious gaze, “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
His brow knits, “I thought… I thought I heard someone singing in Quenya.”
Lindir is probably a little too drunk right now. The wine at the Solstice Festival had been stronger than he remembered.
(Or maybe he had just lost count of the number of glasses.)
The merry songs from the other minstrels still fill his ears and he’s just trying to climb into bed to sleep off the growing headache.
“What?” He screeches, staggering back up.
His robes are soaked, no, his bed is soaked. Plastered to his pillow is a piece of sheet music and at the top, a scratch of nearly unreadable Quenya:
All wrong.
Lindir curses the twins and sets to salvaging a blanket and pillow to lay on his sofa.
I’ll have to speak to Elrond in the morning.
As drunken exhaustion pulls him under, he does not notice that every one of the candles is extinguished with a hiss.
“My lord, I must speak with you.”
Elrond waves him into the study with a polite smile, “Of course, Lindir, you are always welcome.”
“I can leave if you -” Glorfindel, sitting in a nearby chair, braces to stand.
“No, no, Lord Glorfindel, you can stay.” Turning back to Elrond, “Sir, I must discuss your sons’ behaviour.”
“Oh no, what have they done now?”
“After the festival, I returned to my room and found this on my pillow.” He slides the wrinkled parchment over, “Now if they truly wished to critique my music, I would have willingly discussed it with them in a civilised manner!”
“I am sorry, Lindir.” He scribbles a note onto his growing tasklist with a sigh, “I will speak to them at once.”
“And was it necessary to drench my bed?”
The elflord’s brow knits, “Your bed?”
“My bed was soaked! Like they had poured an entire bucket on it. I had to sleep on my divan!”
The look Elrond and Glorfindel shared should have told him something but he was too frustrated to care.
“There was water?”
“Yes! I doubt it has dried even now.”
Elrond blinks and then straightens, “I will speak to them. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
Lindir bows and disappears back out the door. The moment it latches, Glorfindel is throwing himself forward out of his chair.
“Elrond-” But the other holds out a hand.
“It seems our ghost has a taste - or rather a distaste - for music.”
“Do you think,” Glorfindel ventures, uncharacteristically nervous, “do you think it may be your father?”
Elrond chokes on his breath, “Maglor?”
“It makes sense. He was a musician, he spoke Quenya, and it was rumoured he threw his Silmaril into the sea. Who is to say he did not throw himself in too?”
“My father… haunting my house. Why does my family always create the strangest stories? We cannot escape the tragic and peculiar.” He laughs though it cracks at the end.
“What should we do? Do we let him rest? Is there a peace to be found for oathbreakers or is this their eternal punishment? Do we go against the will of the Valar, of Ilúvatar, if we help?”
Elrond drops his head into his hands with a broken sob, “I don’t know, I don’t know.”
In the midst of winter, Imladris awakens to find that they can no longer see the sun or sky. The house shutters itself quickly in preparation for the storm.
“Elrond! Elrond!” Celebrían rushes up to him, sleeves flailing out behind her.
“My darling, what is it?” He smoothes her hair reflexively.
Her hand swings out towards a window, “The twins! They, they-”
“They’re out in the storm? What were they doing out this early?”
“They went mushroom hunting! They were hoping to surprise you with mushroom stew for your begetting day.”
“Ai, those, those-” Elrond shakes his head.
“Don’t be mad at them, no one foresaw the storm.”
“My anger is not for them; it is alarm turning to frustration. I will find Glorfindel, he will know if it is safe enough to ride out for them.”
Her voice trembles as though unwilling to speak the words lest they manifest, “And if it isn’t?”
He gathers her close to him, feeling her heart race beneath her breast. His own fear settles in his throat but he will not let his wife see it, he will not let his burden afflict hers.
“Then we must trust that all we taught them is enough.”
He does not knock, bursting into his captain’s chamber. Glorfindel, in the midst of a late breakfast, spills his entire cup of currant juice onto the floor.
“Elrond!” He curses, wiping his hands with a napkin.
“The twins!”
“What about t-”
“They’re out in the storm!”
Glorfindel’s eyes widen, “They’re what?”
“Come, you must ride out for them!”
“Elrond,” He grabs the half-elf’s arm as he turns away, “It is too dangerous! The snow is too heavy and deep to ride or walk through.”
“But-”
“We have trained them well, you have taught them everything you know. They are smart and clever, they know how to survive.”
Elrond swallows and shakily nods. He turns to the window, seeing only the white blur of snow.
Ulmo, please grant mercy. They are so precious.
The storm worsens.
The winds turn to howling screams and even the sentires atop the parapets cannot stand the weather. Glorfindel calls them in - if there is any enemy out there in the snow, then he hopes they will freeze in the cold.
Celebrían paces the entrance hall, staring at her feet as she walks from end to end.
Elrond holds Arwen, who is clutching her stuffed elk tighter with each minute. She may not fully understand what is happening but even she can feel the tension harrowing her parents.
Erestor had brought warm drinks for them, the adults having strongly spiced wine and little Arwen, a cup of drinking chocolate filled with cream.
He and Glorfindel sit on a nearby bench with a chessboard between them. Not a single piece has moved in minutes.
Over the rattling of the doors comes the faintest clatter of horse hooves.
Bursting outside, Elrond watches as Elrohir and Elladan both trudge into the entrance court, horses trotting alongside.
“What happened? Are you alright? Are you hurt?” Elrond frets in a burst.
Elladan’s horse bears a gash on its leg and the elf himself sports one on his forehead to match.
“His horse stumbled in the snow and they both fell.” Elrohir supplies as his mother wraps a cloak around his shoulders.
“Enough, we must get you inside!”
“It was blinding, ada. Like we had stepped into a void. We did not know which way was home. I was so scared.” Elladan cries into Celebrían’s arms.
The twins have been warmed by bath and drink but still sit by the fire, bundled in furs.
“Shh, shh, it’s alright. You are home now, safe and warm.”
Celebrían smoothes her son’s hair and taps his chin, earning a soft giggle. It is the most beautiful sound Elrond has ever heard.
“But how did you find your way home?”
“We followed these footsteps.”
She frowns, “Footsteps?”
“There was a set of them and they led us all the way home.”
Long after the fire has burned down, Celebrían carries a sleeping Arwen away. As she pauses to kiss her boys’ foreheads, she gives one to Elrond that clearly says, get some sleep yourself.
“I will.” He whispers and draws the twins tighter against him.
Elrohir mumbles something in his sleep and Elrond shushes him, “You’re safe, my son. Just sleep.”
“And atya,” He addresses the two feet standing lost in the corner of the room, “thank you. Thank you for bringing them home.”
Those puddles drip for a moment before they race out the door.
Elrond thinks nothing of the ghost’s behaviour until he finds a note on his desk, water creeping across the wooden surface.
In the most illegible Quenya - even worse than Elladan’s - it reads:
Not atya.
“Oh atya,” He slumps into his chair, “of course you are! Regardless of our blood or your deeds, you are a father to me. Elros and I knew so little of our true father, he sailed so soon and when his star rose into the sky, you rose to fill the space left behind. I don’t know how to help you, I don’t know how to save you. I want you here. I miss you so much, but I want you to find peace too.”
He curls into his chest, sobbing.
“I wish I could see you. I miss your eyes, your smile.”
And if he could have heard the words in the void Between, he would have heard their voice reply,
“I miss being seen too.”
“What does it mean?” Glorfindel draws a finger over the paper. The letters are scratched on, the ink trailing off at the end.
“I don’t know; this one is new. Last time it was not atya. But this one, not cana? Not behind?”
“Well, at least we know he can communicate with us.”
Elrond suddenly looks up, eyes glittering with the same shade as Turgon’s infamous mischief, “That’s brilliant! Come, come!”
Glorfindel is more than a little concerned for his friend’s well-being. They are, after all, standing in the riding ground in the middle of the day.
Elrond pulls a reed out and scratches the words into the dirt, “Who are you?”
A damp line drags a groove, music.
“You were a musician?”
Yes.
“And Quenya was your cradletongue?”
Yes.
“What colour is your hair?”
Dark.
“How…” Glorfindel pauses, unsure of the propriety of asking a ghost this, “How did you die?”
Drowned.
Elrond inhales sharply, “It has to be him. Atya, atya! Oh how I’ve missed you! I have so much to tell you.”
But the dirt shifts again, not cana.
“What do you mean you are not behind? Help us understand.”
Not-
The motion stops, as if they are thinking.
Not yours.
“What do you mean?”
Glorfindel shudders as a wet hand trails down his cheek. He stumbles back, “What the-”
Not yours.
His.
“Ecthelion?” He gasps, reaching blindly out into the air.
Slowly, agonisingly slowly - it shifts again.
Yes.
“How are you here? Gondolin, it’s… it’s under the sea. It was days away from here, how-”
“So,” Elrond sinks to his knees, “so you’re not Maglor.”
No.
Ecthelion touches his hand. And soon the ghostly drips are not the only water striking the dirt.
“Elrond-” The blond warrior starts towards him but he staggers to his feet.
“Excuse me, excuse me.” He swipes at his eyes, “I need to go.”
As Elrond vanishes back into the house, Glorfindel turns in what he hopes is Ecthelion’s direction.
“I will help you later, I need to go to him.”
Ecthelion watches him go and longs to scream at someone who could hear:
I wish I was not the bearer of such terrible news.